Category: Fiction

Toy Soldier

Mission Log ~ 3672.49

Ejection within the plasma pod supplied the ideal amount of protection from atmospheric entry. However, all instrumentation was lost within the burn.

I was able to use the cellular compression unit just before the operation panel failed, falling lightly to the ground, and landing in soft, green material that resembles grama.

During the 9.96 I have been here, two hundred and forty nine turns of this oxygen heavy planet, I was assimilated into a familial structure by a human youth, as an entertainment device, thanks in part to my resemblance to a popular range of media. Initially finding it difficult to move in my compressed state, I was unable to communicate. But within his attentions, I gathered enough of an understanding of the technology of this primitive world to modify my flight suit to compensate and to facilitate the belief that I could complete my mission.

Once that belief was established, my main goal was then to gain the trust and admiration of that child, who identifies as Blake, so that I might have assistance among this alien race.

After our first conversation, he was frightened and locked me in a tiny space where other entertainment devices are stored. But I communicated that I didn’t wish to harm him and that I only needed his help. I was then able to procure daily nourishment from him as well as the light needed to work during the dark hours.

He has since become my foot soldier, and was nearly convinced of our need to be free of adult supervision, but lacked the confidence and will to take care of his mother himself. This left me with the daunting task, but there was a semblance of understanding on my part. She affects me as well, though, in a different capacity.

Vivianne exudes a potent pheromonal cocktail and possesses both primary and secondary sexual characteristics which proved to be an additional complication. I found myself hiding through many early morning hours in the dark corner of her dressing space, without weaponry, but surveillance enabled on my helmet, in direct violation of Grand Directive, adjunct 7.452.

My observance of her was not something Blake needed to know about or understand.  He is a good soldier, but each mission presents it’s own set of obstacles and secrets for the plan chief to overcome and keep, respectively. Hiding my interest proved to be pointless though, as he retains a level of intelligence that any of my fellows would have underestimated as well.

Upon the first night that I was able to reverse the cellular compression and finally remove my flight suit, I entered her room to eliminate the distraction.  But having administered a dose of benzodiazepine into her wine glass that evening, I was able to touch her and smell her more intimately without her full awareness. And in another violation of Grand Directive, adjunct 5.316, I found myself inside her bunk. With her.

Her flesh was pliant, soft yet firm, and as I touched her, she emitted small sounds that compelled me further. Her redolence made my salivary glands active. And, as I drew down between her thighs to taste her, I no longer wanted to dispatch her.
After the primordial effects of her to my biology had subsided, it was clear that my original plot was my only option. Brainwashing a capable adult human would prove far more difficult than the child. But the distraction of her made my attempts to end her life futile.

For days, I escaped the monotony of plotting and engineering, using my tongue and fingers on her, becoming addicted to those noises she created. Then mating with her, week after week, I lost all sense of myself within the sweetness of her lips, mane, and flesh.

Before sunrise on 3671.92, she nearly regained consciousness in my arms. She mumbled and pressed her mouth against the surface of my pectoral plate, and it took a force of will to escape before her broken sleep turned to full wakefulness.

As I spoke to Blake the next day, he said he had realized I was “in love with her”. He spoke with the acumen of a child who knows things that perhaps they don’t even realize they know.

That didn’t stop me, though. I’d never wanted her more.

And I want her more still, now.

But, I am out of narcotics.

Without the means of forcing her to forget and induce her docility, I have decided tonight to show myself to her. Confess and explain my situation. Blake feels my comprehension of his language has improved enough that she might understand. If she will listen.

My mission might force me to be rid of her. Duty comes before all else. I know that I should kill her.

But, last night, for the tenth time, she looked me in the eyes. Touched my face. Told me she “loves” me, that she remembers and that she doesn’t care what I had done for the better half of a year.

But without the haze of alcohol and memory reduction, I am not sure what she will remember. It is possible she has grown tolerant of the drug’s effects. But she does not look for me inside her daily life.

Her reaction is very difficult to estimate and might be impossible to control. I’ve only ever given her pleasure. But removed the memory of it, each time. And finding her child’s toy is an alien being…

Even if she does remember, she doesn’t know me at all.

I am a soldier. Duty comes before all else.

But I’m honestly not sure what will happen if she does remember. If she does love me. The mission seems like nothing next to that. Nothing.

I am registering and posting this log, having compressed once again to wait for her in her bunk room.

If this mission fails and this log is picked up, do not look for me.

Please. Do not ever look for her.

Pyro

My house is on fire by MD-Arts
My house is on fire by MD-Arts

Nothing could ever prepare you for seeing your home destroyed. Charred by flames and smoke so lethal that the life inside barely stood a chance. Then every opening bashed to pieces by men you respect and appreciate.

It’s difficult to see them the same way, after.

The smell was the worst. Acrid smoke mixed with burned timber. There could have been the faint odor of burned hair, but the melted carpet and singed insulation buried it beneath a thick plastic stench.

An arson investigator stood next to the claims adjuster, speaking a language born of their careers. Stony faces and rigid postures earned dutifully during decades of sifting through the aftermath.

Their hands were cold and rough.

A confession would make things easier, but they had the proof they needed.

The metal paint can had melted inward as the contents burned for fifteen minutes. Or more. Before the carpet in his room ignited.

When he left, he’d been smart enough to close the door. Or smart enough to not close the window.

Fresh air fed the flames until it overtook the walls and ceiling.

Then, the roof.

Molly was in bed, dozing through reruns of Friends. Spike had been sleeping on his spot in the hall closet.

Max had returned for my wife. But didn’t make it to my best friend in time.

They tell me he died in his sleep, from smoke inhalation. He never even knew.

But I know my dog. The smell would’ve woken him.

I saw the door. That closet door that we never, ever closed while he was in there. Deep grooves along the handle and sides.

Spike could’ve opened that door if it was unlocked.

I know my dog.

And so does Max.

Debris

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sunday-November-22-573987110
Sunday, November 22 by AlexandrinaAna

He woke me. Coated by all that life discarded during the years that I slept. All that time I’d thought I’d died.

He woke me, brushing away all of it. Clearing the death and darkness, beseeching me to show him more. Show him everything. The debris was often belligerent, as I seemed to cling to it in despair. But, beneath the detritus, he quickly found color. Beneath the crumbling wood, he found polished marble. Beneath the flaking mud, he found painted tiles, creating a masterpiece of art and form and beauty.

He woke me, bringing joy and life to the abandoned halls that pleasure had long forgotten. The magic of his love doesn’t seem to know a benediction. The hope within him gleans a future within me that has never before been imagined.

He woke me. And with that debris dislodged and denatured, imagination is not needed to see. The sight of completion is everything in the eyes of a brokedown palace who had only ever hoped to be a home.

He woke me. So that HE might be free.

Screams of Eternity is PUBLISHED!

It has arrived! I am officially a published author of a short story.

A year ago, when I wrote this, I couldn’t have imagined how it would feel to see my words in print.

Now it’s here! Infernal Ink is a wonderful magazine filled with lovely, dark, creepy stuff. Hydra and Dave have made a great issue. I have been up reading since it arrived very early this morning. I hope you’ll check it out.

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Screams of Eternity is the second piece, amidst some really wicked and dark stuff.

It’s a story of abduction, torture and revenge. Let me know what you think, if you get the opportunity to read it.

To those of you who have followed along, always reading, “liking”, and commenting, thank you for making me believe in my own talent.

And, to all of you who have been my support through the past year and longer, especially my kinky crew, my biggest fan and the young damsel who inspired this piece, I love you! Thank you for standing next to me, keeping me up, even as I fell.

Running

Forest by gazo via DeviantArt.com
Forest by gazo via DeviantArt.com

Out of breath, arms braced against a tree, I raise a hand to cover my mouth. To silence myself.

The night air nips at my skin and the ground bites at my bare feet beneath me. The silence and stillness of the leaves and branches around me makes it nearly impossible to hide.

The snap of a twig sends my heart into my throat, but I dig into the bark with my fingertips to keep myself from bolting. I turn my body slowly toward the noise and peak around the tree. I don’t see him, so I shift around the other way, careful not to make a single sound while I listen intently.

I tiptoe from one tree to the next, trying to find the edge of the treeline. I don’t know these woods, but I know there is an edge and I know the clearing well. I push myself in one direction. If I can find the meadow… If I could just find the meadow…

There’s a rustle from forty feet away, but this time, I don’t wait to try and see him. I run.

I run faster than I thought I could, fast enough that I almost don’t feel the scrapes from wood and stone or the slippery slime of rotted foliage decaying on the forest floor.

I turn to look behind me and slip on a root, but collect myself quickly and continue forward, ignoring the burning sensation and warm wetness trickling from my knee. My lungs burn from the effort to escape and I eventually have to surrender to my body’s need for rest at the base of a steep hill. There is an opening in the trees at the top of it, and I wonder if that is the clearing.

I work to catch my breath as I slowly make my way around the bottom, looking for a path up that isn’t so steep. And just as I find it, he finds me.

I clamber upward, racing against his much longer strides. His fingers circle my ankle at one point, but the blood from my knee must have made me slippery, because he loses his grip. I worry for a moment about the wound, but force myself to climb faster, and then run harder.

I can see the field. I have to get there. I trip on a rock and as I right myself, his hand is in my hair.

I fight him with all my might. I can make it. I just have to get away. But all too quickly, I feel my wrists trapped in his hand and he’s pushing me back, against a tree, and stuffing something in my mouth to muffle any sound I might be able to make. It wouldn’t matter, because I’m miles from anyone who might hear me at this hour.

I keep my eyes closed, continuing the fight until my wrists are cuffed behind me, around the base of a smooth, tall beech tree. His fingers wrap around my throat.

“Open your eyes.”

I look up to find his dark gaze running the length of me. Up and down. Up and down.

A giggle bubbles up from my chest, unbidden.

“You almost made it, didn’t you.”

I swallow and pull at the chain locking my wrists behind me.

“Hurt yourself though.”

He tuts, letting his hand fall from my neck, and glide down my front, unbuttoning my dress slowly and pressing his fingers into my skin between each one. I shiver and look out into the clearing, silently cursing my clumsy feet.

He kneels and pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket, and brings it to his lips. I watch him wet the surface with his tongue, then wipe away the streaks of red from my ankle and shin. I swallow again as he lifts the hem of my skirt up and away from my knee, holding it lightly between my thighs. He looks up as he presses the cloth against my knee and pushes his thumb upward, beyond the fabric of my dress.

He tugs my feet apart, despite my efforts to shut him out, and slips his thumb along my moist, shaved flesh. The ball of his thumb finds what it was searching for and works around and against me with a knowing that is simply unfair. Imprisoned by his bonds and my own flesh, I try desperately to block out the sensation, to evade his beautiful brand of torture.

But it’s wasted effort.

My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together around the makeshift gag, but soon, my sighs turn to moans and he reaches up to pluck my panties from my mouth.

“But… I didn’t win…”
“I know you didn’t baby girl.”
“The rules… I had to make it to the clearing… I’m supposed to be giving you a reward.”

His dark eyes meet mine as he pushes me beyond the edges of reason.

I smile as he stands and brings his lips to mine, his breath tickling me before he lets out a low, feral growl.

“Oh, believe me baby girl. You ARE my reward.”

His fingers dive deep inside me and his hand closes around my throat, once again.

“And I’m just getting started.”

Red, revised – Snippet from Broken Hips, #WIP

 

This is one of those posts… The kind I never expected I’d write. I’m about to write about writing. Because, after posting my snippet yesterday, I read it. And, it felt off.

Sometimes, when you are in a predicament like I am, trying to squeeze in the writing wherever it will fit, often having to dig it free with my fingernails because, let’s face it, a life full of work, dirty diapers, first grade bullies, homemade baby food, spelling homework and drudging through my emotional issues isn’t exactly inspirational. I’m trying to force myself to do it, because I want to. Because I want to write. That is genuinely all of it. But writing is not the same as writing well.

After posting Red yesterday, I knew something was wrong, so I asked for some writing advice from a friend who is mentoring me through this process. I tend to overexpose. I tend not to trust the reader. I tend to tell the story instead of letting the story tell itself. I want you to see the scene exactly as I see it in my head… but that is just silly, because we are going to interpret things differently, and isn’t it better to let you have your own experience with it?

And, as he pointed out, Leigh sounded an awful lot like Meredith, yesterday, instead of Leigh.

I’m in the beginning stages of a second draft of Good Girl, so Mer has been fresh in my mind lately. And truthfully, Leigh is a stretch for me (which is great, because stepping out of your comfort zone is often when the really good stuff happens).

Leigh is a real hardass. She is not soft and fluffy. She’s not a babygirl, like Mer. And she wouldn’t say half of the things I made her say yesterday. So, I revised the scene. And I’m posting it to see what you think. You can read the opening scene here. There is much in between that I’m not sharing on blog, mainly because I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with this story yet. But I wrote a little more this morning. I should put it away so I can concentrate on my first project.

What can I say. I have ADHD!

Let me know what you think!

—

20150504_131026_20150504132154559

I look at him, beneath a sheet of red hair, with a grin that only nips at my cheeks and never makes it to my eyes.

“Those eyes give you away, Leigh.”

As he steps closer, I narrow them, and I feel the corners of my mouth pull in.

“Come on. Let go. You can just… be, when you’re with me, you know?”

His fingers slide my hair away from my face as he touches my cheek. His voice falls.

“Look at me this time. And don’t run away.”

I glance up into his eyes, willing myself still.

For a moment, I think about scaring him off, like I had that first night. Or when I’d dyed my hair. Or when Nicole told him he was too good for me.

But that would make him fight me again. Even though he said he never would.

“You’re shaking. …Say something.”

My thoughts crash into each other, none of them letting any of the others get any leverage. I want to just fucking leave. But something is keeping me locked here. And it isn’t just his fucking hands on me.

“I get it, babe. You want to fight instead? Kick the crap out of me so you can feel enough pity to let me kiss you again?”

I hear the laugh gurgle up from my chest. But, as I watch him, I stop it. Staring into his soft, brown eyes, I do want him. Fuck. I do want him.

“I don’t really want that… But I want you, Leigh.”

I shake my head, looking at the lips of this nerdy, little prick that just confessed… He wants me.

He moves closer, his voice so low.

“You’re not running. And you’re not swinging.”

His breath falls across my lips and my lungs ache from holding my own air too long.

When his lips touch me, I feel the rush. I reach up to hold onto him, the same way he holds onto me. Both of us working to keep me here. I sigh when he pulls back, and looks straight through me again.

“I need you to tell me. Tell me what you want.”

I swallow and slide my fingers back into his thick hair, trying to make my feet move closer to him, or pull him closer to me.

“No, Leigh. Tell me. Open that big, beautiful mouth of yours and talk to me. Any other moment, you’d have a whole mouthful of words for me.”

I roll my eyes, and he groans, pulling further back and letting his hands fall. I let mine drop as well.

“Please… Doc.”
“She speaks!”
“Don’t be a fucking asshole.”
“No, let’s turn that around, shall we?”

I frown at him, and look down at his hands at his sides. He raises them, crossing his arms in front of his chest and I turn away for a moment. I want to leave. But I don’t.

As I face him again, the corner of his mouth is tugging upward and he lifts his fingers to my face again. I sigh with relief at the contact, leaning into it but hoping he doesn’t notice.

“You want more, Leigh?”

I force myself to close the gap between us while my cheeks burn.

“Kiss me.”

The words hang in my mind, but I’m not quite sure I actually said them.

“Kiss me the way you did that first night.”

His eyes bore through me.

“Please, Doc…”
“No, Leigh. Tell me.”
“I’m here! Isn’t that enough?”
“No. Because you need to admit to yourself, as much as I need to hear it. It may have been fun, but I don’t want to have to fight you to fuck you.”

I smirk. But for barely a moment. Because his expression is not that of a man who just wants to fuck.

I swallow and press against him, pulling at the words in my head, trying to force them out. Until his face begins to harden.

I inhale deeply and close my eyes.

“I want you, Doc. I want you to kiss me. I want you to make love to me…”

Every muscle in my body is tense, and when I open my eyes, they dart between his and his lips for what seems like an eternity. I can taste blood from where I’ve bitten the inside of my lip to keep still. My feet tingle. My head aches.

Until his eyes spark with something unfamiliar, and his lips soften into a tiny smile before crushing mine.

His tongue parts my lips and his hands slide into my hair, pulling me up to meet him further before gliding down my body, under my ass, and lifting me to wrap my legs around him.

My body seems possessed, giving and taking what it wants. My hips grind against him, while my fingers slide into the collar of his polo so I can feel his skin. I bite his lip, fisting my hands in his hair. Then he strokes my tongue with his own, sending electricity through both of us until we finally need breath more than that kiss.

He sits me on the table and tugs the buttons of my blouse apart. When it opens, I pull it off as he steps back to look at me.

I know I am still scraped and bruised, and glance down at my plain red bra. I tense, seeing all those fucking marks. But as his finger crooks under my chin, tugging my face back to his, I feel every muscle in my body relax.

His voice sounds so fucking right. And his words pool deep inside me.

“I know you did it to piss me off. But I really fucking love the red, baby. On you. It’s perfect.”

Red – A snippet from Broken Hips, #WIP

20150504_131026_20150504132154559

I smiled at him, beneath a waterfall of red, but that grin only nipped at my cheeks and never made it to my eyes.

“I can see right through you, Leigh. Those eyes have given you away from the start.”

As he stepped closer, my breath caught in the base of my throat. I didn’t want him to touch me, but I didn’t want him to NOT touch me, either.

“Let go. You can breath with me.”

His fingers rose and slid the stream of my hair away from my face until they slipped down my cheek and jaw. His voice fell to a whisper as he lifted his other hand so that he held me there.

“Look at me this time. And don’t run away.”

I lifted my eyes to to his, trying to keep myself still, but trembling with the instinct to go. It wasn’t fucking instinct, really. I’d programmed myself this way. I didn’t deserve anyone to be tender and graceful with me.

For a moment, I thought about trying to toughen up again. Scare him off, like I had when I first dyed my hair. He’d told me he loved it before, and I didn’t want to let him love any part of me. Or make him fight me again. Even though he said he never would.

“You’re shaking.”

I tried to bring thoughts to my lips, but there were none. No words for this moment. None from me, at least.

“I get it, babe. You want to fight instead? Kick the crap out of me so you can feel pity enough to kiss me again?”

I heard the laugh bubble up from my chest before I felt it. But I stared into his soft, brown eyes, willing him to step closer. I did want it. I did want him.

“You know I don’t want that.”

I nodded, or tried to. While forcing my entire body to remain motionless. I did want him.

“You’re not running.”

His breath fell across my lips. He moved so achingly slow, like he was sure I was a frightened doe, and would bolt at any moment.

When his lips touched me, I felt that rush of emotion that had scared me so much the first time. I reached up to hold onto him, the same way he held onto me. Both of us working to keep me there. I sighed as he pulled back, and he looked straight through me again.

“I need you to tell me, baby. Tell me what you want.”

I swallowed and slid my fingers back into his thick, wavy hair, trying to make my feet move closer to him, or maybe pull him closer to me.

“No, Leigh. Tell me. Open that big, beautiful mouth of yours and talk to me. You know at any other moment, you’d have a mouthful of words for me.”

He rolled his eyes, pulling further back and letting his hands fall to my shoulders. My heart sank.

“Please… Doc. Please put them back.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward as he lifted his fingers to my face again. I sighed with relief at the contact. God, I really did want this.

“More.”

I forced myself to close the gap between us while my cheeks burned with that stupid, fucking internal arguement.

“Kiss me.”

The words hung in my mind, but I wasn’t sure I’d said them.

“Kiss me the way you wanted to that first night.”

His eyes bore through mine with their silent demands.

“Please, Doc…”
“No, Leigh. Tell me.”
“I’m here! Isn’t that enough?”
“No. Because you need to admit to yourself, as much as I need to hear it. It may have been fun, but I don’t want to have to fight you to fuck you.”

I smirked. But only for a moment. Because his expression was not that of a man who just wanted to fuck.

I swallowed again and pressed against him, pulling at the words in my head, trying to force them from my lips, but failing. Until his face began to harden with disappointment. And rejection.

Then they poured out of me like he’d turned on a faucet.

“I want you, Doc. I want you to kiss me. I want you to make love to me. I want you to love me…”

Every muscle in my body tensed as my eyes darted between his eyes and his lips. I wanted to run so badly that I could taste blood from where I’d bitten the inside of my lip to keep still. His eyes sparked with something unfamiliar, but his lips softened into a tiny smile before he crushed me with his kiss.

His tongue parted my lips and his hands slid into my hair, pulling me up to meet him before gliding down my body and under my ass, lifting me to wrap my legs around him.

My body was possessed, giving in and taking what it wanted. My hips ground against him, while my fingers slid into the collar of his polo to feel his skin. My lips caressed his while our tongues danced, sending shots of electricity through both of us until we needed breath more than the kiss.

He sat me on the table and tugged the buttons of my blouse apart. Hurried, but not frantic, when it finally opened completely, I pulled it off as he stepped back to look at me. I knew I was still scraped and bruised, and glanced down at my plain red bra, feeling so much more exposed than I ever had with any other man. But as his finger crooked under my chin, lifting my face back to his, I felt every muscle in my body relax, his words pooling into something that felt so, fucking right, deep inside of me.

“I know you did it to piss me off. But I really fucking love the red, baby. All of it. On you. It’s perfect.”

Broken Hips

Some_Over_the_Counter_Action_by_fearthainn[1]

I bet he thinks he could fuck me in half, this guy drooling over me from fourteen inches away. He doesn’t get that I could put him on the ground in 40 seconds.

Underestimated. Forever, fucking underestimated.

But he stands there over the bar, smiling at me like I’m a Christmas present. In a goddamn cardigan, of all things.

“What’s with all the bruises, sweetie? You ok?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”

I roll my eyes, but then my shoulders and look back up at him with a smile.

“Can I get you something?”
“You sure you’re ok? You have… You’re really pretty.”

I can’t help but wince. He smells really good. At least he’s not smooth. I’d thought he’d be one of those pick up artists.

“Yeah, lots of girls are pretty. How about a drink?”

His forehead creases and he rests his fingers on my hand against the bar. I should be used to this shit.

“Hey. I might be able to help–”
“Listen, I really appreciate your concern, but I’m not in trouble. Seriously. I would really like to get your drink order though.”

I watch him narrow his eyes as he pulls his hand away.

“Jack and Coke.”

It never ceases to amaze me how people will surprise me with their drink orders. I would have pegged him for a microbrew. Deb can guess them every time. More proof that this is not my destiny.

He stares at me as I mix his drink, but he doesn’t give me the same mopey look I’m used to.

“So, what are they from?”

I glance up at him, but look away quickly. I feel my cheeks heat up and tuck my hair behind my ear as I set the glass in front of him.

“Never assume anything.”

I exhale a long breath, closing my eyes, before I step forward and tell him what he owes.

“You’re not going to tell me? I’m actually really curious.”

His smile reveals a broken tooth and I can’t help but chuckle at the irony. A prepster, in a hip bar, with a broken tooth. I narrow my eyes at him and step further forward again, only inches away, so I won’t be heard.

“The first rule…”
“Ah-ha. And the second.”

He catches himself and lowers his voice.

“And the third!”

Staring at him, I can’t imagine him there. But I look down and notice the scrapes on his knuckles and places where tape had pulled off the hair on the backs of his hands. When I look up, his smile is different.

“Willshire and Fifth… We let women in too.”

I laugh out loud, throwing my hand over my mouth, and cursing under my breath as I look around the bar. When I glance back at him, he’s sat in the stool drinking through the tiny straw from the side of his mouth. Making me smile again.

“Tooth hurt?”

He chuckles and nods, setting the glass down too hard, and wiping his forehead.

I purse my lips and lean forward on my forearms.

“It’s the hardest rule in the fucking world, isn’t it?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Denton and Spring. Wednesdays at 11.”
“Breaking the rules doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“Some of them.”

I nod towards his empty glass and he hands it to me grinning. As I turn to fill it, I think I hear him say something but I look back and he’s staring at his hands.

“It’s only obvious to us.”

I put his glass back in front of him and switch out the cocktail straw for a soda straw, which makes him smile at me again with that crooked, fucking broken grin.

“So, Mr Rogers, what do you do?”
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon.”
“Holy shit, really?? That’s either perfect or perfectly stupid.”
“Well, it doesn’t take extreme precision to reset broken hips… so I always have something to lean back on.”

I feel myself smiling at him. More than I’ve smiled in a long time.

“Broken hips…”

And leaning forward on that bar, facing him and knowing, I just couldn’t help myself.

“Willshire and Fifth when?”
“Tonight. 1am. You going to come?”
“First rule…”

I purse my lips again and slide my fingers over his knuckles.

“But I’ll see you around, doctor.”

 

Image courtesy DeviantArt.com, ‘Some over the counter action’ by fearthainn

Just a little flash fiction, and possibly the beginning of something bigger.

Unlocked

those locks by woelkchen-chan via DeviantArt.com
those locks by woelkchen-chan via DeviantArt.com

A loud click awakened me, and I felt everything change.

A familiar scent filled the air, but I couldn’t place it. The sun warmed my skin.

I blinked, trying to adjust to the light. But it filled me with anxious energy.

“There you are.”
“What? Am I free?”
“I’ve unlocked you.”

My hands shook. Oxygen seemed scarce. His voice…

“Come. No more hiding.”

Stumbling forward, I thought I recognized freedom, almost forgetting the prison at my back.

“You unlocked me?”

I stared at my rescuer, smiling.

But as I looked around, I felt my face fall.

“Freedom isn’t so simple.”

—

The above piece is for a Chuck Wendig writing prompt at http://terribleminds.com. I’m very excited because it clocks in at exactly 100 words! Those who know me well know just how difficult that was! 😛

Dress me

mirror, mirror by aimeelikestotakepics via DeviantArt.com
mirror, mirror by aimeelikestotakepics via DeviantArt.com

As I stand and watch myself in the filmy dressing room mirror, I try to gauge your reaction. You often study me, and always appreciate me, but in this moment of contemplation, I feel like a work of art.

It isn’t the clothes you are choosing, it is the way they accentuate the curve of my hip and the line of my leg.

It isn’t the fabric you are concerned with, but the way it falls over my breasts and where it skims across my thigh.

It isn’t the color you are judging, but the way it compliments my soft creamy skin and the unusual hue of my green eyes.

When your fingers skim and shift, causing my heart to flutter and my core awakens, your eyes tell me that, yes, you are objectifying me. But because I long for it. Because I crave to be your possession. Because I’m just a little girl seeking approval.

So, when I ask you, shall I wear my hair curly or straight? Do you prefer the hoop earrings over the simple gems? Or, which stockings and shoes you like best?

It isn’t because I can’t decide.

I can, and I would.

But you’re here, Daddy, and you want me. So tell me how to make myself just as you desire.

Choose for me.

Decide for you.

Dress me.

The reward is absolutely worth your attention.

For the pleasure of seeing me shine under the spotlight of your love is surely artistry of it’s own.